˘ (pwä-’tem)
XX, December 2009 James Cabil XX, December 2009 “Shit.” It’s what I smell and what I always say. Every single day. What a day off, what a day. Cold sweat is nothing like fermented sweat, Disintegrates my ACUs, cold clammy headsets, Chafed gonads, and yellowed eyepros, What a day. They say, or at least I’m told, Our sense of smell takes the greatest hold of all our memories. They couldn’t go to war in a clean country, You couldn’t send to war a clean bunch of kids. Today’s the day I sit in back, (I’m just a GIB, That guy in the back) In this dream of a dream in downtown, Baghdad, smells-likeshit, Fuckin-A, Iraq I’ll never forget you, brother. I’ll never leave you behind. You sit there and analyze poetry by Langston Hughes, About the Euphrates, and the enslavement of The Africans and Jews. What the fuck do you know? You, You, who only see what you choose. 31
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5/17/11 3:34 PM
